


Dressed in Black

by CricketScribbles



Category: Jurassic Park - All Media Types, Jurassic World Trilogy (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Angst, Drama, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Human Experimentation, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Sex, Smut, Spies & Secret Agents, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Whump, which is what clawen does best of course
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-07-12 10:32:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15993386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CricketScribbles/pseuds/CricketScribbles
Summary: Three years ago, Owen Grady disappeared with highly classified military weapon intel known as The Echo Project. Now, it’s Agent Claire Dearing’s job to track him down and retrieve the weapon at all costs.Claire prides herself on a pristine record at MI-6. She doesn’t get intimately involved with the enemy and she never lets her heart rule her head.Yet somehow, she finds herself in bed with Owen Grady. And when he lets slip that one vital piece of information Claire has been looking for, her loyalties soon begin to align with his.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the clawenficathon and @ava-rosier on tumblr who requested: "Enemies to lovers, Owen appreciating Claire’s not-tiny ass/thighs, Claire and Owen being Alpha-Alpha toppy with each other but it works."
> 
> Hope you like it! Feel free to hit me up on tumblr @cricket-scribbles

 

It was three in the morning when Claire got her first glimpse of Owen Grady. Ink black shadows lingered on the outskirts of the wan piss-yellow light from the gas station. Humidity had long since pasted Claire’s clothes to her skin, sweat pooling in her black leather gloves. But she remained vigilant, unmoving from her position.

 _Be careful with this one, Agent Dearing,_ Mills had said.

Claire didn’t need to be told to watch her back. Working at MI-6, she made more than her fair share of enemies. And if she let Owen slip through her fingers tonight, she would have yet another name to add to that long list of people who would be all too willing to put a bullet in her brain.

The rumble of a motorcycle’s engine caught Claire’s attention. Seconds later, Owen came into view and pulled to a stop. He had no helmet, but a baseball cap was pulled low over his eyes, shielding most of his face from view. He wore a flannel button up shirt, sleeves rolled back to the elbow, with black jeans and boots caked in dried, flaking mud. A dark shadow of stubble spread across his jawline.

He was a far cry from the picture Claire had seen in his file—clean shaven, crisp white Navy uniform stretched tight across his broad shoulders. But she had been in this job long enough to recognize the symptoms of a man on the run—haunted, skittish, and tense.

Owen bypassed the gas pump and headed into the gas station instead. Claire watched as he wandered the aisles, grabbed a bag of peanuts, two packages of beef jerky, then disappeared to the refrigerated section and out of her line of sight.

Claire was on the move. She slid out of her car and drew her pistol from beneath the driver’s seat. Her boots barely made a whisking noise on the pavement as she screwed the silencer into place on the muzzle of her pistol.

The back door of the gas station was locked. She had seen to that already. The only way Owen Grady was getting out alive would be to go through her. And she had no intention of allowing him to escape.

Claire slipped in the door and gestured to get the clerk’s attention. He was a scrawny teenager with a chronically sleepy expression permanently fixed in place. She flashed her MI-6 badge and jerked her thumb at the door. The clerk’s eyes widened a fraction of an inch and he nodded, scrambling out the door.

Claire crept along the aisles, pistol at the ready. With Owen’s military background, he had proven to be a tough target to take out, staying off the grid, never spending more than two days in one place. But her objective wasn’t him. It was the weapon he had stolen.

 _What sort of weapon?_ Claire had asked when she received the file, almost entirely redacted into blackness.

There wasn’t much information for her to work with apart from the bare essentials and she hated being kept in the dark.

 _I’m afraid that’s classified,_ Mills had replied.

The only clear directive of her mission was that Owen’s life didn’t matter in this case. It was the intel he carried, the prototype of a weapon far above her paygrade.

For all Claire knew, she could be walking into an ambush.

One aisle remained.

Her grip tightened on the pistol and her finger caressed the trigger. She stepped forward, gun raised and steady.

Nothing.

A deafening clang of metal thundered in the back of the gas station.

“No, no, no,” Claire hissed. “ _Shit!”_

She darted to the back of the gas station. The door hung lopsided on its hinges and the familiar rumble of a motorcycle engine purred to life once again.

Throwing caution to the wind, Claire broke into an all-out run and skidded into the road, blocking Owen’s path.

He dropped one foot to the ground, his boot heel sliding on the pavement. He revved the engine with a threatening growl.

In answer, Claire aimed her pistol at him. She had him in her sights and she was not about to back down.

Owen revved the engine again—final warning. The squeal of tires screeched in the silence. Then he was barreling straight for her.

Claire fired. Once, twice, three times.

Owen swerved, nearly laying his bike flat on its side, before he managed to right it again and blew past her.

Claire strode to her car, tossed the pistol on the seat beside her. She knew she hadn’t missed him. Owen wouldn’t risk seeking out medical attention, but a gunshot wound would slow him down, tipping the cards in Claire’s favor.

As Claire turned to leave the parking lot, she noticed a lump on the ground where Owen’s motorcycle had been. She pulled up beside it, opened her door and picked it up.

A t-shirt. One of the tacky tourist ones on a rack inside the gas station. A pink palm tree was imprinted on the front, wearing sunglasses and a cartoon grin.

Definitely not something a man like Owen Grady would wear. Besides, it would hardly fit him.

The shirt was a child’s medium.


	2. Chapter 2

Owen’s shoulder was on fire.

He didn’t dare stop until he reached the safe house. It took him twice as long as usual to cover his tracks. He could barely use his left arm, his fingers were going numb, and he was light headed and fuzzy from blood loss.

As Owen stumbled in the door, a small wide-eyed face peered back at him from a pile of blankets on the ratty couch in the corner of the apartment.

“Maisie,” Owen rasped. “I need you to go to your room. Stay quiet and stay out of sight. And leave your light off.”

Maisie nodded once, gathered up her pile of blankets and vanished down the hallway. Owen gritted his teeth and moved to the bathroom. He leaned against the sink for support as his legs threatened to give way beneath him. He probably had less than five minutes before he was out like a light.

Owen rummaged around under the sink until he found a first aid kit and tossed it on the counter. He tore at the buttons of his shirt, fingers too slick with blood to take the time to unbutton properly.

Gingerly, he peeled his shirt open to see a neat bullet hole in his left shoulder. Missed his heart by the miracle of an inch. And no exit wound either.

Owen groaned. “This is gonna hurt like a son of a bitch.”

He stripped off his belt and clamped it between his teeth. He wedged himself between the sink’s counter and the wall for support as he flicked his knife from his back pocket. The blade hovered just above the red pulpy mess of blood, muscle, and tissue. Owen closed his eyes, took in a deep breath and pressed the blade into the bullet hole.

His hand started to shake and he gripped the knife’s handle a little tighter. His knees buckled, pitching him forward over the counter, his forehead nearly touching the mirror to maintain his balance. A strangled noise tore from his throat as he forced the blade deeper.

There.

A scrape of metal against metal. He’d found the bullet.

Owen adjusted his grip on the knife’s handle. His vision pulsed black around the edges and he knew he wouldn’t last much longer.

The bullet popped free and pinged into the sink, leaving a thread of crimson trailing behind where it rolled around and finally came to a stop.

Owen spat out his belt, leaned back against the wall and slid to the floor.

***

Owen woke to a feather-light touch on his arm. His eyes fluttered open to see Maisie staring back at him, her eyes wide with concern and fear.

“You’re not dead,” she whispered with a tiny smile of relief.

Owen raised his hand to brush a lock of hair away from the corner of her mouth with his knuckle.

“Promised I’d stick with you, didn’t I?” he croaked.

She looked so small and young. How could people like Claire Dearing be blind to the fact that Maisie was a kid, for god’s sake? She wasn’t a killing machine.

Maisie’s fingers spidered up Owen’s arm. Only then did he realize that his shoulder had been bandaged and he knew he hadn’t been conscious long enough to do it himself.

Owen glanced down to see his chest and shoulder wrapped tightly in gauze.

“You patched me up?” he said.

Maisie shrugged. “The bleeding had slowed down but it wasn’t stopping. I tried to wake you but I couldn’t.”

Owen hooked an arm around Maisie’s shoulder and pressed a kiss to her forehead. He drew her tight against his side and she huddled closer, her head on his good shoulder.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he whispered against her hair.

Maisie didn’t respond for a minute or two. She pulled her knees up to her chest.

“Is it my fault that you got hurt?” she whispered.

Owen reared back to look at her. “What?”

Maisie kept her gaze on the floor, tracing the faded patterns in the linoleum.

“Because the bad men want to take me back,” she said. “They want to make me a monster.”

Owen cupped Maisie’s chin in his palm and tilted her head up to look at him.

“I won’t let that happen,” he said. “I promise. They won’t get anywhere near you again as long as I’m around, all right?”

Maisie nodded. Owen held her chin for three seconds more, looking her in the eye to drive home that he meant every word he said.

Then he released her and reached into the pocket of his jeans. He pulled out a package of gummy dinosaurs—the only thing that had survived his sprint from the gas station. He’d dropped everything else to get away.

“Now,” he said. “Are you hungry? Can I interest you in some breakfast?”

He tore the bag open and offered it to Maisie. She selected a purple T-rex and popped it in her mouth.

It wasn’t the life Owen wanted for her. Sitting on the grungy bathroom floor, blood stains on his clothes, a mangled bullet in the sink.

One day, he hoped he could take Maisie out for a huge stack of pancakes, soaked in butter and maple syrup, until she couldn’t eat another bite.

One day, he hoped she didn’t have to see the effects of blood and violence, the fate she was destined to ever since she was born.


	3. Chapter 3

“You’re certain about this, Agent Dearing?” Mills said. His tone was flat and bored, but skepticism still carved through with sharp condescension.

“I know I hit Grady,” Claire replied.

On any other occasion, she would have called out Mills for questioning her abilities. She was one of his top agents and if she said that she hit her target, he damn well better believe her.

But Owen was out there, somewhere. Bleeding and vulnerable. Claire was more interested in tracking him down than arguing with Mills.

“It sounds to me like all you managed to do was scare him off,” Mills said.

“That won’t happen, sir.”

“For your sake, I hope not.”

A click signaled the end of the conversation.

Claire glanced at the child’s shirt, laid out on the table in her hotel room. She hadn’t mentioned it to Mills. If he was going to wave the classified flag in her face, then she would play her cards close to the vest as well.

Claire approached the table and plucked at the shirt’s hem, smoothed out a wrinkle. It seemed so out of place, so wrong when she considered the sparse pieces of the puzzle she had so far.

Ex-Navyman Owen Grady: deserted.

A secret military weapon prototype: stolen.

Her objective: retrieve the weapon at all costs. Owen Grady was disposable. Alive or dead, it didn’t matter. He wasn’t what MI-6 was interested in.

And now, a child’s shirt. Owen had risked his neck to come out into the open for food and a shirt that didn’t even fit him.

The file didn’t mention a wife or children. Then again, most of the file had been so heavily blacked out that extra information was not generously provided.

Could Owen be protecting a family of his own in the middle of this mess?

***

MI-6 was keeping tabs on airports, train stations, and buses in case Owen showed up again. Claire bided her time in her hotel room. He was bound to slip up eventually since she’d shot him. Blood loss would screw with his judgment. Infection would make him weak and slow.

It was early morning when the phone rang. Claire was seated by the window in an armchair, her pink silk robe loosely tied around her waist. A cup of coffee waited on the table beside her, steam curling up into the air as she browsed Owen’s file, more out of idleness than the need for information that wasn’t there.

Claire absently reached for her phone. But when she picked it up, it was silent and the screen was blank.

Another echoing ring, slightly tinny and distant. Not the hotel room’s phone then.

Claire’s head snapped up as her hand fell to the pistol on the table beside her coffee. She pressed herself back against the wall, steering clear of the window as she canvased her hotel room.

A third ring, this time from the vicinity of the door.

Claire turned, pistol raised and ready.

On the floor was a small flip phone. Cheap plastic. Grey. Non-descript brand. Textbook burner phone.

Claire inched closer and picked it up.

“Good morning,” Owen said, far too brightly. “Sleep well after our exciting rendezvous last night?”

Claire flung the door open, scanning the hotel’s hallway on either side, gun in hand.

“Relax, sweetheart,” Owen said. “I’m nowhere within shooting range, trust me.”

“How do you know you’re safe?” Claire replied. “I could be right around the corner.”

“If I told you specific details to my location, that might be considered tipping my hand, Agent Dearing. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

Claire stopped dead in her tracks at _Agent Dearing._

“Yes, I know who you are,” Owen said, his voice low with triumph. She could _hear_ the smile in his voice, damn him. “I prefer to keep tabs on who’s tailing me, especially when they’re waving a gun around the way you were last night. So just rest that itchy little trigger finger, okay? All I want to do is talk.”

“About what?”

“Our mutual interest of course. The Echo Project.”

For the first time, Claire had a name. Another piece of the puzzle that Mills had been unwilling to give her.

“My guess is,” Owen continued. “Your boss left out a few key details when he put you on this assignment. But he told you enough to know that I’m the bad guy.”

“I don’t discuss my business with strangers.”

“Right. Classified.”

Claire was beginning to hate that word. _Classified._

Owen sighed. “Well, then. I’ve got some light reading material you might be interested in if you’d care to join me for breakfast.”

Claire let out a short laugh of disbelief.

“You must be joking,” she said.

“Too scared to meet me, sweetheart?”

“It’s _agent_ ,” Claire replied, scathing. “Not sweetheart. You stole a top secret military weapon and you expect me to just show up for a coffee date?”

“Mmmm…yep. Sounds about right.”

“Don’t patronize me, Commander Grady.”

Owen huffed a soft breath of amusement. “It’s just Owen now. I’m sure my file mentioned that I deserted. I’m a traitor to my country, a disgrace—“

“And a thief.”

“So…I take it that’s a yes for coffee?”

Claire didn’t respond right away. Her gaze fell on the table where the child’s t-shirt was still spread out. She couldn’t afford to say no. There was so little that she knew about this case and even if the “coffee date” was a setup—which she suspected it to be—then at least she could get another crack at taking Owen down.

“All right,” Claire said. She lowered her gun and returned to her hotel room. “Where do you want to meet?”

“The café on the corner,” Owen replied quickly. He’d planned this out then. Further proof of an impending trap. “The table closest to the kitchen. Ten minutes.”

Then he hung up before she could take a breath to argue.

Claire tossed her phone on the table and prepared to meet Owen face to face for the second time.


	4. Chapter 4

Owen drummed his fingers on the table, restless.

He wasn’t exactly thrilled with the idea of dragging Claire into this, considering how risky it was to rely on an MI-6 agent, especially one so deeply buried within bureau politics.

But that was the reason why Owen chose to contact her. Because she was damn good at what she did. And if he was going to take The Echo Project head on, he wanted the best on his team.

Besides, Owen had tried to outrun Claire for months. If she continued to shoot at him the way she did outside that gas station, he wouldn’t be around to protect Maisie. And he needed to stay alive. For her.

Rather than out-maneuver Claire, Owen was working a different angle. A little desperate, maybe. But he didn’t care as long as it meant she stopped pointing her gun at him.

Claire stepped in the door of the café. Her gaze shifted around the room before settling on Owen.

The last time they’d met, Owen hadn’t really taken a good look at Claire. He’d been too preoccupied with the gun in her hand then.

Now, Owen took the chance to study Claire, to pick up any clues he could about the woman he might be making a potential deal with.

Her hair was trimmed in a neat, flawless bob that barely brushed her shoulders. Not a single strand was frizzy or out of place. She wore slim, dark blue jeans, black heels, and a tan trench coat, tied loosely at the waist. Her hands remained resolutely outside of her pockets to show she wasn’t reaching for a weapon.

Although Owen knew she was packing. So was he. Neither of them would have showed up empty-handed.

Owen slid a cup of coffee across the table as an invitation. Claire crossed the room with a glance at the cup but she didn’t touch it as she pulled out the chair opposite him and sat.

“Have you decided to turn yourself in?” Claire said.

“You wish. I don’t give up that easily.”

“Neither do I.”

Owen huffed a laugh. “I’m beginning to see that.”

He placed a file on the table beside the coffee cup and nudged it over to her. Claire reached out, pulled the file closer without taking her gaze away from Owen. She finally glanced down at the file and her expression went stone cold.

“The Echo Project,” Owen said. “Hatches kids from DNA in a lab. By the time they’re five years old, they can tear apart an assault rifle and reassemble it in two minutes flat.”

Claire remained silent.

Owen didn’t know how to interpret that. Silence could mean anger, dangerously close to the boiling point. Or it could simply mean she was listening.

Either way, he decided to press his luck and keep talking while he had the chance.

“When the kids reach seven years old,” he said. “They know how many pounds of pressure it takes to cut a single artery. They can calculate how long it would take for a grown man to bleed out based on environmental temperature, adrenaline, and weight.”

Claire didn’t look at him, her gaze trained on the file.

“Purpose?” she said. Detached. Mechanical. Searching for answers and not hung up on the fact that Owen had just laid out the schematics for kiddie serial killer bootcamp.

“Take your pick,” Owen said. “Money. Politics. Power. The usual culprits. It’s easier to grow a troop of soldiers who have no ties to the outside world, obey your every word without batting an eye. Less distractions that way. Can’t have an army thinking for themselves. That’s just inconvenient.”

Claire made a non-committal noise. She turned another page in the file.

“How many children are we talking here?” she said.

“Alive?”

That got Claire’s attention. Her gaze flicked up to Owen’s face.

“You mean…?”

Owen nodded once, grim. “None of the kids make it past ten years old.” _Except for one,_ he thought but didn’t say. He’d leave that part out for now. “The thing about cloned kids is that they’re more likely to go ape shit crazy pretty quickly.”

Claire paled, just a little. So, she wasn’t a robot after all. She had feelings. A conscience. And Owen was finally getting through to her.

“Who’s running this operation?” Claire said.

Owen leaned back, his hand flat against the table.

“You won’t like that answer,” he said.

“Trust me, I don’t like any of this already.”

“Your boss, Eli Mills. And the scientist he’s in league with, Dr. Henry Wu.”

Claire stared at him for several seconds.

“You’re lying,” she said in a flat voice, wrestling with disbelief.

Owen gestured to the file. “It’s all in there. Mills is providing financial backing for The Echo Project. Wu handles the dirty work. Cloning the kids. Studying their behavior, monitoring food intake—”

Claire put up a hand, shaking her head. “Do you just expect me to believe this on your word alone?”

Owen gestured at the file. “I brought you evidence.”

“Which could have easily been faked.”

“Well, I doubt your boss would be willing to share details but maybe if you asked politely—”

Claire shoved her chair back. “If all you’re going do is mock me, I’m leaving.”

Owen let her get halfway to the door before he spoke.

“There’s a gala this Saturday,” he said. “At the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Mills is using it as a cover to gain more supporters for The Echo Project. Big names and big money. Mayors, governors, CEOs. People with heavy influence to get this thing running as a full-time operation around the globe.”

Claire turned around to face him. She approached the edge of the table but she didn’t take her seat again.

“What about you?” she said.

“Not my kind of party.”

“You’re asking me to go up against my superior.”

“I’m asking you to look at the facts and do the right thing for these kids.”

“It’s a tall order,” Claire said.

“Considering how well you shoot, I’m sure you can handle it,” Owen said.

Claire raised an eyebrow. She knew she’d hit her target. She didn’t need him to confirm it. But Owen tugged the collar of his shirt open to reveal the bandage underneath.

“Hurt like hell, by the way,” he said.

Claire shrugged. “You could have cooperated. Made both of our lives a lot simpler.”

Owen grinned. “Where would be the fun in that?”

The ghost of a smile flickered across Claire’s lips but she poked her tongue in her cheek and turned her head aside slightly, locking her composure into place again.

“Look,” he continued. “If you want the bad news straight from the horse’s mouth, that gala is your best bet for answers. Mills and Wu will both be there. Since I’ve put a little hitch in their plans lately, they’ll be scrambling to smooth things over.”

“How do I know you’re not sending me into a trap?”

Owen shrugged. “You don’t. You’re the one with top level security clearance. I’m the fugitive. They want my head on a spike, not yours.”

Claire stepped forward and slid the file off of the table.

“How do I contact you?” she said.

“Just sit back and look pretty. I’ll call you.”

Claire’s eyes narrowed a fraction at that response but she changed the subject.

“I’d better go,” she said. “Looks like I’ve got some dress shopping to do before the gala.”


	5. Chapter 5

So, Owen did have a child with him. But not a normal one. If even a scrap of what he said was true, no wonder Mills had refused to share details when he’d put Claire on this assignment.

But if that was the case, then Claire had been sitting on a ticking time bomb without realizing it.

Why did Mills keep the kids a secret from Claire? Eventually, she would find out the truth. And after that? Would Mills have her killed to cover his tracks? Or would he pay her to keep quiet?

She didn’t like the thought of relying on his mercy to stay alive. Especially when he was raising an army of kids to be mass murderers. More than likely, Mills fully intended to have one of his clones do the dirty work and finish Claire off.

But why go through all this trouble to get one clone back?

_None of the kids make it past ten years old._

Mills couldn’t keep his army alive. He wouldn’t allow any of his experiments to get away, fall into the wrong hands, when he had so little time with them, when he was sitting on a gold mine of wealth and power as soon as he worked out that one little flaw in his plans: the kids self-destruct.

Claire’s limousine pulled up to the gala, an ostentatious mask to cover the brutality lying underneath—experimentation on children, stealing their innocence and joy, rendering them nothing but weapons, disposable when they were no longer useful.

 _Like me,_ Claire thought.

Mills would get rid of her in a heartbeat once she’d served her purpose and returned the child Owen had taken. She may have climbed her way up the MI-6 ladder to be one of the best agents in the business, but that didn’t mean she was safe.

Whether she failed or succeeded on this assignment, she would be dead.

The chauffer opened the door and Claire climbed out. Her dark blue sequined sheath dress draped straight and smooth over her, glittering like the night sky. She tugged her white elbow-length gloves up a little higher, the silk slippery against her skin.

Then she turned to face the blindingly bright lights of the gala.

***

For the first hour, Mills was nowhere to be seen. Claire wandered through the room, taking note of the people around her.

Which ones would be lining Mills’ pockets to fund child experiments? Did they know where their money was going? Or did they simply fork over the cash and sign their names on the dotted line at the promise of wealth and power?

Claire finally spotted Mills out of the corner of her eye as he entered the room, shaking hands with the mayor of New York. She turned her back to him, pretending to survey the buffet table.

A moment later, Mills gripped her elbow sharply as he came to stand beside her.

“What are you doing here?” he said, his voice a low growl that no one else could hear. “I gave you orders to find that weapon, Agent Dearing.”

“I’m working on it,” Claire replied.

She shifted to fully face him and idly brushed at the lapel of his suit, straightened his tie a little too tightly.

“I’ve come by some new information,” she added. She flicked her gaze up to meet his eye. “About The Echo Project.”

Mills swallowed. That was the only answer she needed. Claire jerked on his tie, constricting his throat.

“You didn’t inform me I was hunting down a _child_ ,” she said through her teeth.

Mills shoved her hand aside and took a step back.

“Who told you that?” he said. “Grady?

Claire made no reply. She picked up a champagne flute, twirling it in her fingers. Mills huffed in disbelief and shook his head.

“I thought you were better than that,” he said. “You’re damn good at what you do, Agent Dearing. But you’d throw away your career on the word of a criminal? That’s not even a rookie move. That’s simply naïve.”

Claire’s fingers tightened on the glass. “I’m not throwing anything away. I want the truth.”

“I think maybe I need to find someone else for the job. I don’t believe you can handle the situation anymore, Agent. I’m terribly disappointed in you.”

Mills brushed past her. Claire downed the champagne in one gulp and set the glass on the table. It seemed she’d struck a nerve.

Claire slipped through the crowd and pushed open the door to the women’s bathroom. She headed straight for the end stall and retrieved the small set of audio equipment she’d tucked behind the toilet.

It had taken hours to set up bugs through the museum, in every janitorial closet and storage room she could locate in order to ensure all of her bases were covered. She flipped through the channels, searching and waiting.

There.

Mills’ voice.

“We’ve been compromised.”

“How?”

She didn’t recognize the second voice.

“Does it matter?” Mills said.

“I asked you a question.”

“Agent Dearing was sniffing around earlier. If she hasn’t connected the dots, it won’t be long before she does.”

“ _Shit_.” Sigh. “Get rid of her.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’ll raise questions that we can’t afford right now, Henry.”

Henry. That must be Dr. Wu then. This night was unraveling just as Claire expected it would. But that realization was not a welcome one.

Everything she thought she knew, everything she’d worked so hard for, was a lie. Corrupted. False. She had held out hope that Owen was wrong. But it seemed he was the only one being honest with her.

“If Dearing leaks information about The Echo Project,” Wu said. “We’re screwed. This is your mess. Clean it up.”

“Don’t act like this is my fault,” Mills shot back. “You were the one who got chit-chatty with Grady about the project, telling him all about training the kids to be weapons of war. I mean, come on. He was just a grunt, for God’s sake. But you _had_ to brag about your little Frankensteins.”

Claire clicked off the recording. She’d heard enough. But she was far from finished.

***

It was nearing midnight and the ballroom was full. Mills tapped his fork against his glass of champagne as he stood from his table.

“May I have your attention, please?” he said. “I’d like to propose a toast.”

The room went silent. All eyes turned on him. He smiled, genial and welcoming, a picture-perfect host.

But as he opened his mouth to continue, the screech of static echoed in the ballroom. He winced. The audience flinched, shoulders hunched up in discomfort. A few people shot accusatory glares in Mills’ direction. He pasted on another smile.

“My apologies,” he said. “We seem to be having some technical difficulties. We’ll get it fixed right—”

Another burst of feedback. Then Mills’ voice began to fill the room. But he wasn’t speaking.

_We’ve been compromised._

The color drained from Mills’ face. He spun to the nearest guard standing to his right.

“What the hell is going on?” he hissed.

The guard shrugged and touched his earpiece.

“We’re working on it, sir,” he said.

“Do it _faster.”_

Dr. Henry Wu’s voice followed, hollow and damning.

 _Agent Dearing was sniffing around earlier. If she hasn’t connected the dots, it won’t be long before she does_.

_Get rid of her._

Mills put up his hands, raising his voice in an effort to drown out the loudspeakers.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” he said. “It seems someone has hijacked our sound system for a prank. Please line up and file out the exits in an orderly fashion—”

_If Dearing leaks information about The Echo Project…We’re screwed. This is your mess. Clean it up._

Mills swore and marched out a side door, heading for the tech room. But when he stepped in, the guards were tied up, gagged. Taped to one of the monitors was a note in the neat, precise handwriting of Claire Dearing.

_Welcome to hell._

***

Claire wished she could have seen the look on Mills’ face. But she was already cutting it close as she bolted down the museum’s maintenance hallway.

Somewhere behind her, a door slammed open. She flinched but kept running.

“Stop!” a voice barked, short and sharp. Used to being obeyed. Definitely MI-6.

Claire didn’t look back. Only a few more feet and she’d hit the kitchen. Then she had to make it through the parking lot before she was in the clear. She couldn’t afford the split second it would take to glance over her shoulder.

A gunshot exploded in the narrow hallway and a bullet cracked into the wall inches from her head, sending plaster flying. Claire ducked but her steps didn’t falter.

The kitchen door at the end of the hall began to open. Claire pushed herself harder, sprinting for the opening and the advantage of precious seconds gained.

Mills’ face came into view, his eyes dark with rage, his jaw clenched tight.

Claire skidded to a stop.

“You made a fool of me tonight, Agent Dearing,” he said.

Behind her, an MI-6 agent continued to barrel toward her. Claire snatched up a tray from a nearby food cart and swung. Metal clanged against the side of Mills’ head. He stumbled, his shoulder hit the door.

Claire pushed past him into the steam-filled chaos of the kitchen. A moment later, Mills’ voice rang out above the noise of clanging pots and sizzling pans.

“Stop her!”

Claire shouldered her way to the door, yanked it open. The parking lot stretched out before her, crammed with cars. She could gain time, lose herself amid the Porsches and Aston Martins. But she didn’t need time. She needed to get away.

Another bullet lodged in the doorframe next to her shoulder. Claire plunged into the parking lot.

A black Sedan careened into her path, cutting her off. Just as she turned to run the other way, the door was shoved open. She braced herself for another agent, a gun trained on her…

“ _Owen?”_ Claire said in disbelief.

“Get in,” he said. His gaze darted past her shoulder. “Quickly.”

Claire scrambled into the passenger’s seat and pulled the door shut behind her. A bullet bit into the glass, sending spider-webs of cracks shattering outward. But the glass held and didn’t break.

Owen swerved out of the parking lot and into traffic.

“I take it you had a little chat with your boss,” he said.

Claire brandished a copy of the recording she’d made before hightailing it out of the tech room.

“About as well as can be expected,” she replied.

Owen cast a quick glance at her before his gaze snapped up to the rearview mirror.

“Guess this makes you a fugitive now,” he said. “But you certainly went out in style.”


	6. Chapter 6

When Owen opened the door to the safehouse—a ratty, hole-in-the-wall apartment—musty, stale air washed over him. He peeled off his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair, wincing at the pull in his shoulder from the movement.

“Home, sweet home,” he said, sweeping an arm to encompass the apartment.

Claire surveyed the area with a studiously neutral expression. The barren gray walls, plaster cracked and bleeding with water stains. The distinct smell of mold lingering in the air. The couch covered with a layer of plastic that crinkled when Owen flopped down onto it, legs stretched out in front of him.

Obviously, the place hadn’t seen another living soul in weeks. Maybe even months.

“Where’s the child?” Claire said.

“What child?” Owen replied.

As soon as Claire had seen The Echo Project file, he knew she’d figure out that he had an Echo kid with him.

But Owen had been protecting Maisie for a long time by now and he couldn’t shake off his gut instinct to continue keeping her whereabouts on the down low. Once a secret was out, there was no taking it back. And he wouldn’t spill the beans to just anyone who asked. Telling the wrong person would leave Maisie to pay the price for his mistake.

Claire simply stared at him. She looked so…out of place in her sparkling gown and pristine white gloves. But her hair was frizzy and beginning to curl at the ends after her run from the gala. There were a few nicks and scrapes across her bare shoulders from the debris kicked up by flying bullets.

She was in the same tight spot as Owen.

But Claire had instincts of her own, burned into her bones by grueling hours of training. She might be a fugitive but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t throw him to the wolves the first chance she got.

Owen jerked his chin in the direction of the bathroom, tucked in the corner of the apartment.

“You’ll find a change of clothes in there,” he said. “Can’t vouch for the fit but they should be more practical than that getup.”

“You seem prepared,” Claire said. “As if you knew what the outcome would be tonight.”

Owen shrugged. “You’re smart. If anyone could cut through the bullshit, it would be you.”

Claire dropped her gaze to her gloves as she worked them off, one finger at a time.

“And yet you choose to hide the child from me,” she said.

“Damn straight.”

Claire hummed. She folded the gloves in a neat square and placed them on the tiny kitchen counter.

“I thought we were in this together, _Owen_ ,” she said. As if emphasizing his name was proof of trust.

Owen raised his eyebrows, amused. “Never said that.”

A flush of anger crept up Claire’s cheeks and she took a breath, prepared to object.

“Cool your jets,” he said. “I didn’t get you to ditch the big six for kicks, all right?”

Claire crossed her arms and leaned one hip against the counter.

“But we’re talking about a kid here,” Owen continued. “A kid who’s been through a lot already. So, you’ll keep your distance for a little while longer until I give the all-clear.”

“Fine,” Claire said with an edge of sullen acceptance. “Do I get to know a name, at least?”

Owen considered for a moment. He’d left Maisie’s details out of The Echo Project file, to be on the safe side. He was familiar enough with bureaucratic red tape to know Claire would have been given minimal details about The Echo Project. Just a retrieval order.

Once Claire realized Maisie’s identity, she would be in over her head. Too late to back out, caught in a web of corruption. Then she’d be silenced about the whole thing one way or the other—bribed, blackmailed, or buried.

Owen needed to bring Claire into this on a personal level. To show he wasn’t using her like Mills did.

“Maisie,” he said at last.

Claire nodded. “Maisie.”

The name sounded soft in her mouth, delicate. Almost hesitant. As if she couldn’t believe that it belonged to a lethal weapon.

Claire took a step toward the bathroom. But Owen spoke first.

“I’ll be taking that gun by the way,” he said.

She stopped, shoulders rigid.

“I can’t walk around unarmed with Mills after me,” she said.

“I’ll cover you.”

“That’s not exactly reassuring.”

“If you want to meet Maisie, no weapons,” Owen said.

Claire huffed. Without turning around, she gathered her skirt in one hand, revealing the pistol strapped to her thigh.

Owen tried—and failed—to not stare at the expanse of her milk-white thigh on display, a stark contrast to the chilled, sleek black metal of the pistol.

Claire unhooked the gun with two fingers and placed it on the counter. She shoved her skirt down again and continued to the bathroom. She made it to the threshold before Owen spoke for a second time.

“Hold up,” he said.

Claire stopped again with an audible sigh of exasperation.

“You don’t really expect me to believe that’s all you’re carrying,” Owen said.

Silence. Claire didn’t move.

“All right then,” Owen said lightly. He slapped his hands on top of his thighs and rose to his feet. “You leave me no choice. Time for the strip search.”

Claire turned to face him, chin jutted forward, jaw clenched with defiance. She reached into the front of her dress and withdrew a small knife from her bra. She slapped it on the counter beside the pistol.

Owen grinned. “Much better.”

Claire stalked into the bathroom and slammed the door hard enough to make the windows rattle.

Owen chuckled as he sank onto the couch again and tucked one hand behind his head. Looks like he’d be sleeping with one eye open tonight.


	7. Chapter 7

Claire didn’t sleep. She kept one ear open. Listening. Waiting for Owen to pull Maisie out of thin air. Wherever he was hiding her, it couldn’t be far away. Owen wouldn’t want her out of his sight for any longer than necessary.

If Maisie was as dangerous as Owen made her out to be, Claire needed to maintain contact with MI-6 in some capacity. She didn’t know how deep the corruption had spread, but if she could find even one clean agent, that would be enough. She could still salvage her position and take Mills and Wu down.

And Maisie? What would happen to her once The Echo Project was scrapped for good?

Claire shook her head. That wasn’t her concern. Clearly Mills couldn’t be trusted. But her directive hadn’t changed. Maisie needed to be retrieved, for her own good as well as the good of anyone around her. If she went haywire, she could cause serious harm to god only knew how many people.

All Claire had to do now was get Maisie. Separating her from Owen would be the hard part.

The bitter smell of coffee made Claire sit up. A moment later, the rattle of pans and silverware signaled that Owen was awake.

Claire dressed quickly. The brown pants, heavy boots, tank top and overshirt Owen had provided were a surprisingly decent fit. She didn’t want to think about how he’d figured out what size she wore.

She stepped out of the bedroom to find Owen in the small kitchen, his back to her, a hand towel draped over one shoulder. He stood at the stove, nudging scrambled eggs around in a pan.

“I don’t have any plates or bowls,” he said, without turning around. “Hope you don’t mind your eggs in a cup.”

He divided the eggs into two ceramic, chipped mugs. He jabbed a fork in each one and offered a mug to her.

“Thank you,” Claire said as she accepted it. As long as she played normal and civilized, she could slowly continue to earn Owen’s trust, get him to open up about Maisie’s location.

Owen gestured to the couch.

“Get comfy,” he said. “We’ll be keeping a low profile today. Cops are out in full force, looking for us.”

“What about Maisie?” Claire said.

Owen cast a sideways glance at her. Claire lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug.

“You’ve been guarding her for months,” she said. “But you spent the night here. That must mean Maisie is alone. Unless you have a few Navymen up your sleeve I don’t know about.”

Owen breathed a quiet laugh. “Wish I did. But no. Maisie’s safe, right where she is.”

“Interesting,” Claire mused.

“What?”

“You’re confident that no one will find her, wherever it is that you’ve tucked her away.”

“Yep.” Owen flipped the stove off and turned around, leaning back against the counter. “Besides, I’m looking at the only one who could sniff out Maisie anyway.”

Claire raised an eyebrow. “Is that supposed to be flattery?”

Owen shook his head with a small, wry smile. “Just stating a fact. Coffee? It’ll have to be black. No milk or sugar.”

“That’s fine.” Claire poked at her eggs in thought. “You can’t run forever, you know.”

Owen’s shoulders rose and fell as he heaved a sigh and picked up the coffee pot.

“Yeah,” he said. “Believe me, I realize that.”

He sounded…tired. As if that thought had left him with one too many sleepless nights, searching for an impossible solution.

“So,” Claire said. “You must have a plan.”

Owen snorted. “Plans were shot to hell a long time ago.”

He set a full coffee cup on the counter and pushed it in her direction.

Claire waited for more but Owen didn’t seem inclined to continue.

“Then what’s the next move?” Claire prodded.

Owen shrugged as he poured himself a cup of coffee. He blew on it slowly for one minute.

Then another.

And another.

Finally, he took a sip. Set the cup aside and returned to his eggs.

Claire stifled a groan and pinched the bridge of her nose with two fingers. She’d come all this way to get answers and Owen was not being cooperative.

The jangle of a muffled ringtone echoed in the apartment. Owen bunched up the hand towel and tossed it on the counter.

“That’s mine,” he said. He crossed the room to his jacket on the back of the chair where he’d left it the night before. He fished his phone out, flipped it open.

Silence.

Owen’s jaw clenched.

“Shit,” he growled. His voice was tense and tight, nothing like the light, playful tone he’d been using with Claire since the first time they’d spoken.

Something was wrong.

Owen shoved his phone in his pocket, grabbed his jacket, and flew into motion.

“We need to move,” he said. “Now.”

Owen crossed the room in two long strides, yanked the door open, and disappeared into the hallway. Claire scrambled to follow.

“Wait, what’s going on?” she called after him.

From somewhere downstairs, a door slammed with a thunderous echo. What sounded like a small army stormed into the apartment building with heavy boots.

“That would be the SWAT team,” Owen said over his shoulder, breaking into a run.


	8. Chapter 8

_Don’t get caught, don’t get caught, don’t get caught._

Owen bolted for the opposite stairwell, hoping and praying it would be clear just long enough to get to the street. As soon as he was on open ground, he could fight his way out.

But in the back of his mind, he knew it was too late.

The approaching thrum of heavy boots made Owen skid to a stop.

The exits were blocked. SWAT was closing in, the proverbial noose tightening into a strangle hold.

Claire came to a stop beside him, a thin sheen of sweat slicking her face and throat already.

“Give me a weapon,” Claire said, hand outstretched.

Owen snorted. “Fat chance.”

She beckoned with her fingers in an impatient gesture. “It’s not like you have much choice here.”

“Sure I do.”

Owen turned to the nearest apartment door and pulled his pistol from the holster strapped to his ankle. He aimed at the lock and pulled the trigger.

Wood cracked, splinters bursting outward. The lock dropped off and thumped against the carpet.

“See? Plenty of options,” Owen countered with a grin.

The words were barely out of his mouth when SWAT officers poured into the hallway.

Owen hooked an arm around Claire’s shoulders, shielding her with his body. He kicked the door open and they hurtled into the apartment as a spray of bullets shattered the door frame inches away from their heads.

“What happened to your no weapons policy?” Claire demanded.

“Can we maybe argue about this when we’re not about to be arrested?” Owen replied.

“Do I get my gun back?”

“No. _Christ,_ you’re relentless.”

Claire muttered under her breath as she shot him a dark look and scrambled to the window. She peered out on the street below.

“I’d say we’re not waltzing out of here any time soon,” she said.

Owen overturned a coffee table and huddled behind it, training his pistol on the open doorway. The grip of the gun was slippery from his sweaty palm. His chest ached from the thunderous pounding of his heart.

At Claire’s words, that chant in his head— _don’t get caught, don’t get caught, don’t get caught_ —faded and went silent.

“Owen Grady,” a voice said from the hallway. “Put your weapon down. It’s over.”

“I’ve still got a few aces up my sleeve,” Owen called back.

He glanced at Claire. She spread her hands with a raised eyebrow, as if to say, _what the hell are you doing?_

Bluffing. Stalling for just a few more precious minutes until he could come up with an escape plan.

But he was out of time.

A metallic clank drew Owen’s attention toward the door where he watched with horror as a tear gas grenade settled on the beige carpet like a heavy black cockroach.

Then it exploded with a pop and hiss.

A cloud of gas poured into the room. Owen’s eyes watered and his throat felt as if he was inhaling fire with every breath. He tugged his shirt collar up over his mouth and nose but it didn’t do much good. He aimed for the door—where he remembered the door had been—but he couldn’t see anything through the haze of gray gas.

“Put the gun on the ground!” a voice commanded.

Blinking, squinting, tears streaming down his face, Owen raised his head to see a SWAT officer in a gas mask staring down at him, the muzzle of a rifle aimed at Owen’s chest.

One word blazed bright in his mind then fizzled like a supernova—a star exploding, dying, going dark.

_Maisie._

He’d failed her. He’d been caught. He promised her that this would never happen and now he had broken his word.

Owen lowered the pistol to the floor. As he straightened up again, the officer rammed the butt of his rifle into Owen’s shoulder. Right where Claire had shot him.

A white-hot flash of pain burst through his chest, ricocheting down to the tips of his fingers. Owen sucked in a sharp breath with a strangled noise.

Another officer grabbed his arms, yanked them behind his back. Fresh agony ripped through his shoulder and Owen’s knees buckled but he remained standing from sheer willpower and a healthy dose of stubbornness.

Cold metal cuffs clamped around his wrists. Hands patted him down swiftly for weapons but found nothing else.

Owen was shoved to his feet, a hand gripping his elbow so tightly, there were sure to be some vicious purple bruises tomorrow.

He was half-dragged into the hall, stumbling as he went. The tear gas was gone but his vision was still shot to hell. The hallway was merely a blur of light and washed out colors—blacks, grays, browns, with patches of faint gold from the lights.

Owen risked a quick look behind him only to find indistinct human figures like smudges of charcoal, too soft to define.

There. A streak of red.

Claire was still with him. If they worked together, they might have a chance to make it through this.

But there was no way to convey that message to her. He could only hope she remained ready to act at a moment’s notice when the opportunity presented itself.

Owen shook his head and blinked rapidly in an effort to clear his vision. He needed to be able to see better than this.

But when he hit the street, a black Suburban was sitting right at the door. There was no room to make a break for it, no brief respite to create a distraction. The officer shoved him into the back seat of the car so hard that another lance of fire shot through Owen’s shoulder.

“Quit with the manhandling!” Owen said, exasperated.

Claire was pushed in after him, not quite as forcefully, he noted. And the door was slammed behind them.

“Congratulations,” Claire said. “We’re screwed. Thanks to you.”

Owen rubbed at his eyes with his palms. “Why are you blaming _me_ for this?”

“You took my gun.”

“Like that would have made any difference. In case you didn’t notice, we were up against an entire SWAT team. Sorely outnumbered.”

Before Claire could protest, an officer climbed into the driver’s seat.

“No talking,” he growled.

Claire shot Owen a sour look. Too bad his vision was clear enough to see that.

He shifted, fingers plying the seat cushion for anything he might be able to use to pick a lock or create a distraction—a safety pin, a paper clip, even a penny could be utilized.

Nothing. Clean as a whistle.

Owen leaned toward Claire, his mouth nearly brushing her shoulder.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a bobby pin or a hair clip?” he whispered.

“ _Quiet_ ,” the officer barked.

“Last I checked,” Owen retorted. “It wasn’t a crime to make sure your girlfriend was all right.”

Claire’s eyebrows shot up at _girlfriend_. Owen shrugged, as if to say, _I’m making it up as I go along._

The officer huffed a dry laugh. He twisted around in his seat to look at them. But he still wore his helmet. With the light reflecting off of the visor, all Owen could see was blank glass, the wide lenses like insect eyes, staring wide and unblinking.

“You’re a terrible liar,” the officer replied. Owen could have sworn he detected the faintest hint of an accent but he couldn’t quite identify it. “We already know who you are so there’s no point in pretending. Now keep your mouth shut before I gag you myself.”

Owen slumped back against his seat. He glanced at Claire but she shook her head. No hair clips. No bobby pins. Instead, she rotated her wrist, turning her hand palm up. Nestled between two fingers was the silver gleam of a lock pick.

She arched an eyebrow with a smug little smile of triumph. He definitely wasn’t living this down for a long time to come.

The officer started the car and pulled out onto the road, heading toward the highway. Half a dozen dark Suburbans fell into line behind, carrying the rest of the SWAT team.

Claire made quick work of the handcuffs and slid the lock pick over to Owen. He kept his gaze focused out the window in case the officer happened to glance in the rearview mirror. Owen tucked the lock pick into the cuffs and twisted as quietly as he could.

But before Owen could get the cuffs off, the car turned away from the highway. It took a winding alley so narrow that the car almost didn’t fit, mirrors nearly scraping the buildings on either side. Owen watched as his surroundings shifted, changing from crusty, hole-in-the-wall apartments to gray, nondescript warehouses.

Owen glanced over his shoulder to see that the caravan of Suburbans had vanished.

Definitely not good.

“Uh, dude,” Owen said to the officer. “I think you’re going the wrong way.”

No response.

Owen glanced at Claire. She sat rigid in her seat, uneasy, shoulders tense. She didn’t like this anymore than he did.

The car rolled to a stop in an abandoned warehouse. No crates, no boxes, nothing. Just empty concrete and flat shadows, untouched by the golden light of morning.

The officer parked the car, killed the engine. Twisted around in his seat. Owen jammed the lock pick into the cuffs and gave one final turn. The cuffs dropped just as the officer pulled his helmet off.

“Barry!” Owen breathed, incredulous. He sighed and sank back against his seat with relief. “Damn, it’s good to see you.”

“You owe me a beer after this,” Barry said. His accent was thicker without the need to conceal it. He nodded to Owen’s now-bare wrists. “I have a key for that, you know.”

“You hit me in the shoulder pretty hard there, buddy,” Owen said. “I’d say we’re nowhere near even yet. And picking the lock is so much more fun than using a boring old key.”

Barry winced. “Sorry about the shoulder. Had to make it look authentic, didn’t I?”

Claire kept staring at Owen. He could feel the heat of annoyance bristling off of her.

“You told me you didn’t have any Navymen at your disposal,” she said.

“Because I don’t,” Owen replied. “Barry and I have been friends since high school. After graduation, I chose the Navy, he chose law enforcement. Barry, meet Claire Dearing.”

Barry nodded. “I’ve heard a lot about you. Owen said you’d be making life difficult for some very important people.”

“Desperate times call for desperate measures.” Claire turned to Owen. “You could have mentioned that you had an inside man.”

Owen shrugged. “Can’t expect a guy to spill all his secrets just because you shot him.”

“Stop whining about that. I practically winged you.”

Owen laughed. “Like hell you did. I had to dig that bullet out of my shoulder on my own, which wasn't easy by the way."

Barry gestured between them. “So, you two really are dating then?”

“ _No,”_ Owen and Claire said at the same time.

Barry raised his hand in a gesture of surrender.

“None of my business. Got it. Anyway, you might be interested in these.”

Barry tossed a padded envelope into Owen’s lap. Owen tore it open to find fake IDs and passports.

“That was fast,” Claire said as she studied her passport. “Less than twenty-four hours.”

“With friends like Owen, you learn to stay on your toes at all times. And you pick up a few contacts in some shady places.”

Claire flicked her gaze up to him. “Don’t ask, don’t tell, right?"

“Smart woman.”

Barry held up a key ring hooked over his thumb and gave it a shake to make it jingle.

“There’s a car waiting for you through that door,” he said, tipping his chin toward the opposite side of the warehouse. “Brand new license plate. The whole nine yards.”

Owen accepted the key and clasped Barry’s hand in a firm handshake.

“I really do owe you a beer after this,” he said.

“Just don’t get yourself killed, man.”

Owen nodded and pushed his door open. He began to slide out when Barry spoke again.

“One more thing,” he said.

He stepped out of the car and came around to Owen’s door. He patted his chest and spread his arms wide.

“Let me have it, Owen,” Barry said. He held up a finger in a staying gesture. “But not the face. Last time you did that, I was on soft foods for a week.”

“I’m not even going to ask,” Claire said as she got out of the car and crossed her arms, leaning back against the door.

Owen tucked his new passport and ID in the back pocket of his jeans. He flexed his fingers then clenched them into a fist, rolling his shoulder, winding himself up.

“Are you sure about this, Barry?” he said.

Barry spread his hands. “You jumped me and escaped. But there's no way I would let you go without a fight."

"If you say so."

Owen cocked his arm back and let his fist fly, driving into Barry’s solar plexus. Barry doubled over with a gasp, sinking to his knees. Owen squeezed Barry’s shoulder and leaned in toward his ear.

“Now we’re even, buddy,” Owen said.

Barry waved him off, still wheezing to catch his breath. “Five minute head start. That’s all I can give you. Make the most of it.”

Owen patted Barry’s shoulder and headed for the waiting car with Claire close on his heels.

He exited the warehouse to find a black Sedan right where Barry said it would be. Owen slid into the driver’s seat, keys in hand, when a small voice from the back seat made him stop.

“Owen?”

He glanced over his shoulder to see Maisie sit up on her knees, a blanket draped around her head and shoulders.

Claire, already halfway into the car, froze.

Owen scooped Maisie up, hauled her over the seat and into his lap, crushing her in a giant bear hug.


	9. Chapter 9

Maisie.

She was right here. Within reach.

Owen met Claire’s gaze over the top of Maisie’s head. The moment he’d seen Maisie, something had changed in his eyes.

The obnoxious banter he had been exchanging with Claire was gone, replaced by a different posture to his demeanor. Softer and gentler when he looked at Maisie. But aggressive and deadly when he looked at anyone else while Maisie was nearby.

“We’d better get moving,” Owen said.

Claire couldn’t tell who he was speaking to—her or Maisie.

In the end, it didn’t matter. Maisie climbed over the seat and huddled in the back again, out of sight. Claire settled into the passenger’s seat slowly, trying not to stare at Maisie.

Owen started the car and kept his gaze trained on the road despite the weight of silence.

“Owen,” Claire said at last.

“Yes?” Owen replied, all innocence.

“There are more than a few gaps here. I’d really like some answers.”

He shrugged. “Depends on what you want to know. Can’t guarantee anything though.”

“Maybe we should start with Barry.”

Owen flinched slightly. “I didn’t want to involve him. But I couldn’t sit on my ass and do nothing while you waltzed into that gala without backup.”

“You’re the one who keeps saying I can handle myself.”

“I got you into this. It wouldn’t be right to leave you high and dry in the lion’s den.” He paused then added, “Besides, no one can fly solo all the time.”

Claire made a small noise of disagreement but didn’t argue that point. It would only sidetrack the conversation.

“How much did you tell him?” she said.

Owen hitched one shoulder up as if he could physically block out that question.

“He knows enough.”

“I don’t like dealing with vague, half-assed measurements, Owen. How much is _enough_? A pinch of corruption for flavor? Or a dash of human experimentation for some extra kick?

“ _Quiet_ ,” Owen snapped.

Claire raised her eyebrows. In the past, Owen had absorbed her interrogating, deflected her remarks with a smile and a sarcastic quip of his own in return.

Not this time. She’d struck a nerve.

“He’s aware that Maisie is…” Owen gave a vague gesture. “Special. But the full extent of her abilities wasn’t discussed.”

“Why didn’t you put Barry on me then?” Claire said. “Contact with Maisie would never have happened in the first place.”

Owen glanced in the rearview mirror. Flicked on his blinker. He took longer than necessary to merge into the non-existent traffic on a narrow side street.

Claire noticed he wasn’t going anywhere near major highways to avoid attracting attention. Areas of mass transportation would be on lockdown while law enforcement operated on the assumption that Claire and Owen would attempt to get out of the country as soon as possible.

Cops on neighborhood patrol wouldn’t be looking for fugitives. Sleepy little back roads would more than likely go unchecked. At least for a week or so.

Once the cops realized Claire and Owen weren’t showing up and search parameters were tightened even further, they’d be long gone.

After another two minutes of silence had passed, Owen finally spoke.

“I wanted to meet you myself,” he said. “I knew Maisie would be safe with Barry for a short time.”

Claire nodded, weighing what went unsaid, nestled between the lines.

“You mean you wanted to keep Maisie away from me,” she said. “Until you were sure I wouldn’t rat you out.”

“Something like that. Can you blame me?”

“Not really,” Claire replied. “I probably would have done the same thing in your position.”

“I knew you’d be a good fit for the job.” Owen paused then pitched his voice lower to prevent Maisie from overhearing, “Still can’t let you have a gun around Maisie though. It’s nothing personal. She’s just…she’s been through a lot already.”

He stopped, his jaw clenched tight. Seconds ticked by and Owen didn’t continue. But Claire could read his body language loud and clear.

When it came to Maisie, Owen’s arsenal of jokes and sarcasm fell by the wayside. He wore his heart on his sleeve with her.

And the thought of Maisie around a weapon had him worried.

Claire remembered that pistol strapped to Owen’s ankle, hidden beneath his pant leg. The only weapon he carried had been concealed.

Maisie was a killing machine, a powder keg waiting to go off. Owen was desperately attempting to hold back the tidal wave of her inevitable fate by keeping the violence she had been born into at bay.

“You don’t know how she’ll react, do you?” Claire said.

“Maisie hasn’t seen a gun, or a knife, or anything like that since she left The Echo Project.”

Claire rubbed at her forehead. “You can’t force her to be normal, Owen.”

“I’m not forcing anything. She’s just a kid who—”

“She’s a _clone_ ,” Claire hissed.

Owen shot her a sharp look. Claire raised her hand, palm out, to stop his impending protest.

“Don’t give me that look,” she said. “This isn’t exactly a situation where the typical set of rules for children apply. She’s not like other kids so you have to make exceptions as needed. That’s all I’m saying.”

Owen deflated, letting his indignation out in the rush of an exhale. His expression smoothed out into bemusement again.

“Would be nice if there was a rulebook for this sort of thing though,” he said. “Successful Fugitive Techniques 101. Top Ten Tips for Betraying Your Country Without Getting Shot.”

“I thought you were the make-shit-up-as-you-go-along type anyway,” Claire countered.

“True. But it couldn’t hurt to have a few guidelines now and then.”

“You’d break every single one of them anyway.”

Owen breathed a quiet laugh. “Probably.”

The twining labyrinth of neighborhood roads fell away and opened up onto an industrial district, riddled with warehouses, storage units, and semi-trailers. The police presence had tapered off to almost nothing but that didn’t mean they were in the clear.

“How did you know I’d go rogue?” Claire said.

“Because you’re so good at what you do,” Owen replied without a flicker of hesitation. “You wouldn’t want to support something as screwed up as this Project. You reached your position at MI-6 thanks to hard work, some merciless strategy, and a clean conscience. Not many people can say that.”

“Not many people would be willing to part with it either,” Claire pointed out, leaving her own fair share of the unsaid for Owen to interpret.

He glanced at her, his gaze travelling slowly over her face. Claire didn’t look away, didn’t squirm or fidget. It was a risky move, putting her potential betrayal of him front and center.

But Owen wasn’t stupid. He didn’t need the message spelled out for him. He’d already been planning for it, going on defense with Claire, keeping her away from Maisie until he was certain he could trust her.

Claire wouldn’t toss MI-6 down the drain that easily and Owen knew it. Mills and Wu might wield a certain level of influence. But their reach only extended so far. There had to be other good people who could be relied on. Claire just needed to find them.

Owen’s gaze settled on the road again. The corner of his mouth curved upward in a smirk.

“What?” Claire said.

“Nothing.”

“Then why are you smiling like that?”

“You’re trying to psych me out. It’s cute.”

Claire glared at him.

Owen quickly added, “You’re also terrifying. Especially when steam starts coming out of your ears and—”

“Owen,” Claire said.

Owen waved her off with a laugh. “Digging my own grave. I know.”

In the blink of an eye, the conversation had shut down, switched to their usual established rapport, sparring with their words, trading jabs and taunts, warnings with a trace of heat but no intent to back it up.

Claire didn’t try to salvage it, didn’t attempt to drag more information out of Owen. All she’d get were tongue-in-cheek responses anyway, shallow and meaningless.

Now it was time to play her role of partner in crime.

“So,” Claire said, leaning back in her seat. “Where are we headed?”

Owen shrugged. “I’m making up shit as I go, remember?”

“That’s not reassuring, Owen.”

“Well, it would be best if we laid low. Security will be hell over the next few weeks. But my safe house is now swarming with cops so we’re going…this way.”

“In other words, you have no idea. You’re flying by the seat of your pants.”

“Pretty much sums it up.”

Claire considered for a moment. Her next move could put her at a disadvantage. But it would go a long way to gaining trust in her favor.

“I have a place,” she said. “In the mountains. Four, five hours from here.”

Owen turned to look at her, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“Mills?” he said.

“What about him?”

“He’s your boss.”

“Doesn’t mean I tell him everything,” Claire replied. “I prefer to keep a few aces tucked up my sleeve for emergencies.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Owen replied. “Got an address for me?"

“Oh, no, no, no,” Claire said, shaking her head. “If you’re using my safe house, I'm driving."

“Is this payback for taking your gun?”

“Yes. Now pull over. You’re sitting in my seat.”


End file.
